Chapter 45
by jmsutherland
Summary: Battle is joined.


Page **21** of **21**

**Chapter XLV**

Ankh-Morpork had many more fire fighters than Watchmen, but that was because it had a lot of fire brigades. The Laddermen were the members of the Municipal Fire Department, but there were numerous others: from the Smoke Jumpers to the Extinguishers. The Fire Department was actually quite small, but that was because it was paid for out of the Citizens' Tax, just as The Watch was. The citizens of Ankh-Morpork studiously tried to avoid paying taxes, even when, as in this case, their lives depended on it. The shortfall was made up by numerous private fire brigades.

Despite appearances to the contrary, being rich didn't necessarily make you stupid: for every foppish half-wit there was a brain at least astute enough to realise that a fire could burn down a mansion almost as easily as it could burn down a slum, hence the profusion of private fire brigades. The private firefighters were no less brave than the public ones, though they were often not so well-trained: sometimes to the lengths of being useless and, occasionally, to the extent of being a public menace.

The other problem with the private brigades was that they were very territorial. There were a lot of them based around Hide Park, but they were never going to attend a fire in The Shades, even though it was only on the other side of the river. Their calculation being, foolishly1, that the river would be an adequate fire-break. The fire brigades on the Isle of Gods would help with fires in the surrounding areas, but if you lived in Nap Hill you were pretty much on your own. The real problem, though, was that they really had no idea who they were dealing with.

Every cultural had a fire-god, even those, like the natives of the island of Sultri, who didn't know how to make fire. The oldest was Wadjet from Djelibeybi –who was actually a goddess- followed by the Agatean god Zhurong, who was also the god of ill-temper.2 In the Tezuman Empire he was Mixcoatl; in Ephebe he was Pyro, in Tsort, Ignis and in Überwald he was called Svarog…the list was longer than Petrosinella's hair.3 On Dunmanifestin, he was generally avoided because everyone thought he was completely insane. Given that he lived among some of the maddest gods that imagination could fancy; this was quite a stretch.

All this was going through Carrot's head, as he watched fires spring up all across the city, because to the dwarfs he was Logi. Logi could change shape and form in an instant; find his way into anything, either by insinuation or force and destroy everything, while delighting in that destruction. In dwarf culture the crackling of flames was known as _logyetz latter_, the Laughter of Logi and he would certainly be cackling tonight. The only reason it wouldn't be all hands to the pumps was that some of them would have to be aiming the hoses.

Meanwhile, and more immediately important, the mob in the square in front of him, was having difficulty finding its way forward, even though there was nowhere else for it to go. As Vlad had pointed out, vampires could get inside your head and make you do things you really didn't want to do. In this case they were making the front-ranks of the mob want to escape from Dean Court backwards, except that this was something of a problem. The second tier of the mob didn't seem to know what it wanted to do as it appeared to be being attacked from below, at least so it seemed, as they kept screaming and looking at their feet as they jumped up and down. Obviously, the Wee Free Men were at work. However, as more and more mob kept pouring into the square he thought that sheer weight of numbers should have been driving them forward, yet they hadn't yet even engaged the massed ranks of The Watch and its batteries of auxiliaries and volunteers. It was as if they were being held back by some kind of invisible barrier. He looked across at the two young witches: they were holding hands with looks of intense concentration on their faces; they were also both vibrating slightly and their feet weren't touching the ground. He thought that the mob was being held back by some sort of invisible barrier, and that it was being generated right there.

The mob's frustration was now almost palpable and so fierce that it appeared to be setting fire to the houses in and around Rodney Parade. It takes a peculiar kind of stupidity to choose to burn down the street you're trapped in, but it looked as though fires were now breaking out all over the city, and it takes a special kind of stupidity to try to burn down the place you live in. The heatwave meant that the whole of Ankh-Morpork was as dry as paper, but by the time the idiots who had set the fires realised that, then whole place was going to have turned into a bonfire, and it would be too late to do anything about.

As Carrot watched he noticed that the barrier was beginning to recede; whether by necessity or by design, he couldn't tell but the mob was growing ever closer to the Watchline, and then suddenly the barrier was gone. And it was clear that the mob really wished that it wasn't.

As the trolls and golems batted people ten rows back, with no more effort than he would need to flick a peanut off a counter, and the dwarfs and humans surged forward, ramming their quarterstaffs into their guts and faces, the gargoyles began to swoop down and snatch people up. They carried them a little way and then dropped them, terror-stricken, back into the crowd; thus passing the dismay at the front deeper within its ranks. The fight was now mostly between the people at the front of the mob who just wanted to get out of the square and those farther back, who still wanted to kill Omnians. It was an utter chaos that The Watch was now barely involved in. If it had been a battle it would not merely have been over but likely have turned into a massacre. Fortunately, though The Watchmen did have swords they were under strict orders not to use them, unless there was no other option; anyway they hardly needed them: wood and fists were doing fine, along with the mob's own dismay.

Still, though, more and more people kept forcing themselves into the square and a pint mug can't hold a pint and a thimbleful, let alone a quart; something had to give. In the end it was the dwarfs. Word quickly spread through the rabble that the side streets were now open. The stony-faced ranks from Copperhead now lined the alleys rather than blocking them, but only if you wanted to get out rather than in. In any case there were two other things preventing anyone getting into the square that way: the scared faces of the escapees told anyone with even a trace of a brain that that was not where they wanted to go but also, the sheer numbers pouring out made getting in virtually impossible. The pressure began to ease, everything looked to be going well, much better than could possibly have been expected, and then something changed.

Carrot didn't notice it at first because so many people were still fleeing down the side streets, but then it began to become clear that the mob was no longer fighting itself, in fact it wasn't fighting at all. Those at the front, who had been trying to escape, had now turned and were moving back, slowly, towards the Watchline. He couldn't see their faces from this distance, but they were moving like zombies.4 This time the line didn't even appear to be trying to fight them, just hold them back. The two witches dropped to the ground and both let out a yelp.

"It's here!" gasped Tiffany.

Carrot really didn't need her to tell him that; there was something fiery growing in the mob, which had now begun chanting: not words, nor even a word but more of a grunt: something like "urgh!" as it pushed back the line, little by little. It was obvious that the flames emerging in the midst of the mass weren't ordinary fire. For one thing, they were black and, for another they were taking on a shape.

Around the shape a space was forming as people pushed to get away from it. Whatever it was it was affecting everyone: the vampires had re-materialised, two of them naked, the pictsies were swarming around in a confused mass and even the trolls appeared to be frightened, and he couldn't remember ever having seen that before. As the form became larger and clearer so the circle around it grew bigger: it had now taken on the shape of a man, though it was maybe fifty feet tall and made of black flame, except for the eyes and the mouth; they burned a dark furnace red. The Mørke had come to Ankh-Morpork, and It wanted murder.

Around the demon the space continued to grow. Carrot was not surprised as he could feel the heat coming off it even from where he was. No one wanted to be anywhere close to the towering monster, except…directly in front of the flaming giant stood a tiny figure, wearing just a hospital nightdress.

"It's Moo!" gasped Agnes.

"The child!?" yelled Carrot, thinking of his own, "what the hells is she doing there!?"

"We'll find out soon enough," said Tiffany, in a quavering voice.

The devil stretched its arms, yawned and blew fire over everyone's heads, setting buildings alight all around the square as it did so. Its followers, apparently oblivious to the danger, regrouped and began to surge forward again; the Watchline continued to hold, just. Now It thundered an almost deafening roar while spraying even more fire around the square and the mob bayed a huge, rumbling "urgh!" of approval.

But now the burning thing looked down, then down again –something had drawn Its attention. Before Its titanic majesty stood a barefoot, little girl with her hands behind her back and a defiant look on her face. It threw back Its head and the enormous, fiery plume of Its laughter lit up the brooding clouds above. When it turned Its attention back down It found that the mite was still there and didn't look as though she was planning to go anywhere.

"Begone, child," It rumbled, now mildly irritated.

"No," said Moo, having had enough of doing what she was told and stamped her foot, "I sha'n't!"

This was beyond the ridiculous, It thought, when all was there for the taking; so the God of Hate gathered Its rage in Its mighty chest and poured Its fury down upon her.

The explosion scattered everyone in a wide circle around the demon, tossing them like rags in the wind; like all explosions it respected neither friend nor foe. Those not hurt directly by the blast drew back as quickly as the surrounding crowd would allow, while the injured tried to shield themselves from the shockwaves and the intense heat still flowing from the havoc of The Mørke. Anyone who was anywhere near the tumult was covering their eyes, as much in fear as for protection, but from their vantage point on the higher ground Carrot and the two witches couldn't turn their eyes away.

Even from this distance they had all three been knocked over by the initial eruption; now they stood and looked down appalled as liquid fire continued to spew from the gaping jaws of the giant demon down on to the spot where Moo had previously stood.

"She can't possibly…" Agnes began, and then trailed off.

"Not even Moo…" Tiffany started, but couldn't finish.

"Why doesn't It just stop," said Carrot with disgust. He sighed and looked down dejectedly.

Tiffany looked over at him, because she could no longer bear to look at what was in front of her, and she saw him look up with a strange look on his face.

"Why doesn't It just stop?" he asked, of no one in particular.

"What?" she asked.

"Why doesn't It just stop?" he repeated, rhetorically.

Tiffany's eyes opened wide as the little spark that had gone off in Carrot's head now caught in hers.

"Why doesn't It just stop?" she said to her friend, holding up her hands, as it spread to Agnes's head too.

They all now looked back at where the demon continued to blaze Its hatred down on the same spot.

"Why doesn't It just stop?" they asked in unison.

"Because she's still there!" they cried in answer to themselves.

"Now," said Carrot, trying to take charge, while also trying to contain both his surprise and his joy, "we're agreed that, as the Devil has much It wants to achieve tonight, It wanted to destroy Moo instantly, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir," the two witches agreed, eagerly.

"Therefore," he continued, "can we also agree that, as It continues to waste Its wrath on the same tiny spot and ignores everything else, It has not so far achieved this?"

"Yes, sir," they nodded, enthusiastically.

"Then the only remaining question is: what can we do to help?"

"Er, nothing, sir," said Tiffany.

"Nothing?" asked Carrot.

"No, sir."

"Nothing at all, sir," added Agnes, helpfully,

"No one can help her! Not the vampires, not the trolls, not the golems, not…?"

"No one, sir," said Tiffany, "she's on her own. This is where it was all leading to: all the prophecies, the forebodings, the premonitions…they all led here and to this moment; to this confrontation. And to what happens now, we are just spectators."

"We're all in Moo's hands?"

"Yes, sir," Tiffany and Agnes said, together.

"I feel so helpless," said Carrot.

Tiffany knew the feeling, every woman did, but at this moment, right at this moment, she could only think of the completely helpless little girl she'd first seen in the school playground in Lancre, not all that long ago. She knew Moo, -she'd been Moo- she loved Moo; almost as if she were her daughter, but had she done enough for Moo? That she didn't know. Now, along with everyone else, all she could do was watch.

In the whole square hardly anything or anyone was moving. The mob wasn't ready to renew its assault; the Watchmen weren't ready to renew their resistance and, though the casualties writhed in their pain, there were, as yet, neither nurses nor Igors to tend them. Every eye that could still see was focused on the fire. Not the fires that were now burning in the houses all around the square but on the one fire, the dark fire, the furious blaze at the centre of everything: the red and the black.

Harry nudged Sally in the back and handed her his cloak.

"Thank you," she said, in a quiet voice, wrapping it around herself.

He didn't know which he found stranger: the tremble in her tone or the frightened look in her eyes. Vampires didn't do fear.

Oh, that was absurd; of course they did fear: they inspired fear, they manipulated fear, they revelled in fear… but they never experienced fear. Was that really what Sally was experiencing now? Was that even possible?

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," she quavered, "It outmatches us, It hates us, It wants to destroy us…yet It stays there, burning Its fury to no purpose."

"You don't think that the little witch…?"

"Of course not," snapped Sally, "she was gone in the first second."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course I'm alright," said Sally "what do you mean?"

"You just seem a bit…"

"Harry, I'm frightened!" she exclaimed, "I've never been frightened before in my life, not even when I was little; not even of my father, and it's horrible. And I feel like a coward."

Harry was shocked, but he really shouldn't have been, because what he was feeling now, and for Sally, was something very strange. The idea that he might die didn't really bother him in the least -it was one of the benefits of being immortal5- but all of a sudden it bothered him a great deal that Sally might. Was this fear? Was this what he was feeling?

"Perhaps you're not frightened for yourself?"

"But who else could I be frightened for?" pleaded Sally and, scarcely to be imagined, she had tears in her eyes.

"I don't know," Harry began, "perhaps…"

"Why doesn't It just go away?" she asked, her whole mood suddenly changing.

"Eh?" was all Harry could manage, taken so unawares.

"It wants to go but It can't," said Sally, completely back to her old self, "because something is holding it here."

"Little Moo!?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes!" cried Sally, "she's still there; that's why I was feeling so scared, because I was scared for her!"

Just her? Wondered Harry. Oh, well, perhaps another day. If there was actually going to be another day, he reminded himself. Time to prioritise, Captain!

Susan extracted Sacharissa from the pile of bodies carefully –some of them were still moaning after all- and helped her to stand. She was a little unsteady on her feet. She was also trembling all over: partly from shock, partly through fear but mostly out of rage.

"It killed that little girl!" she growled, the anger almost sparking off her hair, "just like that, as if she was nothing."

"No, It didn't," said Susan.

"Yes, It did," Sacharissa insisted, "I saw It do it!"

"No, you didn't," Susan corrected her.

"Are you trying to tell me I didn't see what I saw!?" Sacharissa asked, incredulously.

"Yes, well, not exactly: you saw the Devil rain fire down on her and assumed that that had killed her. But she's not dead."

"That's Impossible!" Sacharissa almost yelled.

"No," Susan corrected, "just highly improbable."

"Can you see her?" asked Sacharissa, dumbstruck, yet not quite struck dumb.

"No," Susan admitted.

"Then how can you be sure?" Sacharissa wanted to know.

"If It had killed her then It would have moved on to complete whatever It is trying to achieve and, as It hasn't attempted to do the latter, then I assume it hasn't achieved the former. Plus, I have a certain, _sensitivity,_ to these things."

"So, she's still in there, in all that fire?"

"Yes."

"And she's not dead?"

"No."

"So what do we do now?" Sacharissa wondered.

"We wait," said Susan simply.

"For what?"

"To see who wins."

"How can she possibly win against that thing!?" asked Sacharissa with frank disbelief.

"Well, she's a witch," said Susan with a shrug, "or else she wouldn't still be alive. Who can say?"

Not me, thought Sacharissa, finally -and possibly for the first time since she'd learned to talk- bereft of words.

At the top of the slope Carrot and the two witches continued to stare at the dark fire; nobody else in the whole square seemed to be able to do anything else. Not even try to put out the fires that were spreading all around them.

"Is that thing getting smaller?" asked Tiffany, all of a sudden.

"What? No," answered Agnes, without even looking at her.

"You know, I think it might be," said Carrot, sounding not entirely convinced, even by himself.

They continued to stare.

"It's definitely getting smaller," said Tiffany, not able to contain the excitement in her voice."

"Are you sure?" asked Agnes, still sceptical.

"Definitely," Tiffany affirmed.

"I almost sure she's right," said Carrot, cautiously.

They all three continued to stare, just like everyone else in the square, and it soon became obvious to everyone that the giant figure was indeed shrinking, and doing so very quickly. Within minutes it had dwindled to the size of a small tree and soon after that it had shrunk to little bigger than the size of two men, and still it continued to diminish. And then, to gasps, cries and general amazement Moo herself reappeared from the flames. Now the great demon was smaller even than the little girl herself. Then, at last, it was no bigger than the flame of a common, household candle. Moo stepped forward, bent over and blew it out.

"Poof!" she said.

And then the rain came.

To call it a downpour, or even a torrent, would be to hugely understate the case. It was as if Hendrzen, the Rain God, had carelessly tripped over a bucket of water and accidentally dropped a whole lake over them. The city was not going to burn down tonight, that was for sure. But now it was time to take care of both the living and the dead.

"_Well, that was rather unexpected," said Patrick, looking down at the figure with half of a quarterstaff sticking out of his chest._

"_YOU WERE PERHAPS EXPECTING TO LIVE FOREVER?" asked Death, who had suddenly materialised by his shoulder._

"_Oh, gods no, who'd want to?" laughed Patrick, "Present company excepted, of course."_

"_NOT I, CERTAINLY," said Death, mysteriously._

"_I just thought I'd die in my bed," Patrick said with a shrug._

"_REALLY?" _

_Though he knew this to be impossible, Patrick felt sure he detected a note of surprise in Death's voice. Still, he supposed you could read just about anything into that voice and he doubted that anything could surprise Death._

"_I didn't mean that I thought I would die in my sleep," Patrick laughed, again. He seemed to be finding this whole being dead thing quite hilarious. "I didn't know what it would be: poisoning, stabbing, garrotting…I just assumed that they'd come for me at night, when I was in bed. Easier that way."_

"_I AM REASSURED," said Death._

"_Really!?" said Patrick, doing nothing to hide the astonishment in his own voice._

"_I AM INDIFFERENT TO PEOPLE LYING TO EACH OTHER, BUT I FIND IT IRRITATING WHEN THEY LIE TO THEMSELVES." _

"_My father always said that you should never: kick anything inanimate, force anything mechanical or fart about with the inevitable. I took my death by violence to be inevitable."_

"_THOSE WERE WISE WORDS OF YOUR FATHER'S."_

"_But he wasn't a very wise man," said Patrick, with nothing but contempt in his voice._

"_IT IS OFTEN THE CASE."_

_Well, You really ought to know, thought Patrick, not knowing why he didn't say it aloud as he was sure Death could read his thoughts._

"_I CAN, INDEED," said Death, "AND YOU WERE QUITE A WISE YOUNG MAN IN YOUR OWN RIGHT."_

_The "were" hit Patrick hard, either in the heart or in the stomach; he wasn't sure which as he didn't have either anymore._

"_I didn't expect this either," he said, "as an atheist I was anticipating only darkness."_

"_DEATH IS FULL OF SURPRISES," said Death._

"_So, there really was a Devil?" said Patrick, after a pause; if this wasn't the time for getting all reflective, then he didn't know when would be._

"_YES,THERE REALLY WAS A DEVIL."_

"_And He's definitely gone now?"_

"_YES."_

"_Forever?"_

"_FOREVER."_

"_Sure?"_

"_CROSS MY HEART AND…"_

"_Ok, I get the picture. So what happens now?"_

"_AH, THAT I CANNOT SAY."_

"_You mean you don't know!?" said Patrick, incredulously._

"_NO, I JUST DO NOT WANT TO TELL YOU," said Death and made a horrible rattling noise that Patrick assumed was a chuckle._

"_Do you treat everyone this way?" he asked, noticing that everything was now growing rather fuzzy._

"_CERTAINLY NOT, I AM FAR TOO PROFESSIONAL."_

_Fuzzier still._

"_Then why me?" asked Patrick, plaintively, through the fog now surrounding him._

_The last thing Death said before He faded completely was:_

"_THAT I CANNOT SAY."_

_For a second, or an hour, a year…everything went black. Then it was misty again for a little while. When the mist then began to drift away he realised that he wasn't in Dean Court anymore, and he was relieved to see that there weren't any bonfires or demons with pitchforks. As an atheist the prospect of hell had never bothered him, however, since he'd become aware of being dead it had rather been preying on his mind. _

_This wasn't exactly paradise –that would have been a palace where the fountains flowed with wine while beautiful, scantily clad handmaidens danced among them with trays of the finest delicacies- but compared to eternal damnation, a nice little cottage with a bit of garden seemed like a decent retirement package. It was on the edge of a wood and surrounded by fields, meadows and vineyards –he wondered if they were his, because that really would make a difference- and there were hills in the distance. Being a city boy, he'd never much cared for the rustic idyll, but he was sure he could adapt, what with not having a choice and all that. He decided to explore the cottage._

_It wasn't too bad at all: there was plenty of food in the larder, -though he'd no idea where it came from or how to replace it- furniture, a cooking range and plenty of wood, but where was more coming from? Similarly, there was a well-stocked wine cellar, praise the gods, but when that was gone…would he have to make his own? On the whole it was an intriguing prospect, as were the three bedrooms, three!? One was as neat and prim as if belonged to an aging aunt, while the other two looked as if a gang of pictsies or an orc had been through them. As punishments went he supposed, as he tidied-up, that a bit of housework wasn't too bad. _

_After his minor exertions he thought he deserved a treat and opened a nice little bottle of Elle élève 616 –whoever had put together this cellar certainly knew their Genuan vintages. A glass or two in the garden in, what appeared to be at least, the spring sunshine and he thought it would allow him to gather his thoughts. However, as he came out of the kitchen he found his way barred by two little girls._

_Around ten, he estimated, both dirty and unkempt. There was a tall, gangly, skinny one with sort-of blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile; the other was short and plump -if you were to be kind you'd say "sturdy"- with dark curly hair and an impish grin on her face. Mischievousness was coming off this little ball of fun in waves. _

"_Hello, girls," he said, raising his glass and pretending to be unfazed, "and how are you today?"_

"_Very well, sir," they said in unison, while bobbing curtsies so badly that he thought they might be doing it deliberately. They were both wearing worn, torn dresses; they had tousled hair, grubby faces, stained fingers and filthy feet. _

"_And how might I help you this lovely morning?"_

"_We are your wards, sir," said Long and Lanky, curtsying again, even more ineptly._

"_And you have to take care of us," added Short and Sturdy._

"_Feed us and tend us when we're sick," said Long and Lanky._

"_Tell us to wash properly and make sure we're safe and protected," added Short and Sturdy_

"_And plait our hair," added Lanky, clearly choking back a laugh as she looked down at her companion. _

"_Very well," said Patrick, assuming that this was some sort of afterlife joke, "what are your names?"_

"_Esmerelda," said Long and Lanky._

"_Gytha," said Short and Sturdy._

"_Ok, then let me make this clear," he said with his full, fake Senator's voice, "henceforth you shall be called E and G; to make an example of you both, do you understand?"_

"_Yes, sir," they both giggled._

"_You shall do what you're told," he commanded._

"_Yes, sir," they nodded; this time they had to put their hands over their mouths to stifle their laughter._

"_And if you don't I shall put you over my knee, is that clear?"_

"_We sha'n't be naughty, sir" said Esmerelda. She couldn't possibly have been less convincing._

"_What time's tea?" asked Gytha._

"_In a couple of hours," said Patrick, feeling slightly exasperated._

"_Can we have glugash stew?" she asked._

"_And mashed potato with fried onions too?" asked Esmerelda._

"_Only if you also eat your green beans," he stated, categorically._

"_Awww, no!" they whined in unison._

"_Yes, now go out and play!"_

"_Yes, sir," they laughed - mockingly?- as they skipped out the door._

_Patrick followed them and watched as they fell over each other in the adjoining field. He drained his glass; then he looked up at the sky and yelled: "You said no Devil, but you didn't say no hell!"_

_Of course, Death wasn't listening, so he went back inside and started chopping vegetables, there were only a couple of hours until dinner-time, after all, and he had mouths to feed, really hungry ones by the look of it. He knew that in some way it would have to pay for his sins; he just didn't expect it to be like this._

1 The Ankh had been known to catch fire spontaneously on more than one occasion.

2 And dyspepsia.

3 Which in turn was longer than a castle wall was high.

4 Actually, Lance Constable Knee rather bumbled along, like most men his age, so this wasn't entirely fair.

5 That and not particularly caring anyway.


End file.
